


recover

by everchanginginks



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everchanginginks/pseuds/everchanginginks
Summary: Stiles and Derek check into a motel to lick their wounds after a fight of the supernatural variety, but there's only one bed.





	recover

**Author's Note:**

> After not having written anything for quite some time I joined a challenge to write an _Only One Bed_ ficlet in seven days. This is the result! Thank you so much to Shabs and Sara for betaing, and to my buddies in YASD for putting up with all my whining <3 

Stiles remains in the car, his eyes closed tight and head tilted back against the seat. His hand, clamped against his side, is stained with blood that appears almost black in the shadows within the car. Derek doesn’t look back as he slams the driver’s seat door shut and jogs across the parking lot, arm up to somewhat shield his face against the pouring rain. It has gathered in pools upon the concrete and splashes up on Derek’s legs with every step. By the time he reaches the motel reception, his jeans are soaked and the water drips from his nose and hair. The young woman behind the desk looks completely unfazed upon him entering the otherwise deserted reception. It’s small and cramped, with a loud clock on the wall behind the receptionist proclaiming the late hour. 

“How can I help you?” She drawls, her eyes never once leaving the phone in her hand, her thumb dragging across the screen in an infinite scroll.

“Two singles, one night,” Derek replies, hands landing a tad too forcefully on the desk. The receptionist doesn’t even blink, clearly used to much worse from her customers.

“No can do. All I’ve got is a double, one king.”

“That’s fine,” Derek says, dismissively, because he doesn’t care beyond getting Stiles somewhere where they can take a look at the wound which is making Stiles bleed through the upholstery of the Camaro right this second.

Derek pays in cash and receives a key for room 23 and a bored glance in return. The woman is back on her phone before Derek has made it out into the rain again. He makes the jog across the parking lot once more and grabs their bags from the trunk before rounding the car and pulling Stiles’ door open. 

“About time,” Stiles grumbles, displeased, but his face is dangerously pale and his voice barely audible over the rain hammering against the roof. 

“I was gone for two minutes,” Derek can’t help but reply as he hovers uselessly next to the vehicle while Stiles drags his sluggish limbs out of it and collapses against its side. Derek wordlessly slings Stiles’ arm over his shoulders and wraps his own arm around Stiles’ waist. He tries to be mindful of the gashes in Stiles’ side, but Stiles still hisses in pain when they start walking. 

Room 23 is just large enough to contain a bed, a dresser with an old-fashioned radio resting on top and a bathroom Derek doubts he could fit into comfortably. They trail water after themselves onto the wall-to-wall maroon carpet and Stiles is shivering when Derek helps him sit down on the edge of the bed. 

“Strip,” Derek simply orders and drops their bags next to Stiles. The first aid kit sits at the bottom of Stiles’ bag and Derek pulls it out, tosses it onto the bed while Stiles tries to untangle himself from his wet clothes. By the time Derek has collected the dry towels from the bathroom, Stiles’ wet shirt is dumped on the carpet. Stiles grimly pulls away the makeshift bandage they had managed out in the woods before the sound of rapidly approaching police cars had forced them to make a break for it. 

“It’s not so bad,” Stiles insists, an attempt at a smile making his lips twitch. “Class 2 maiming, at the most.”

Derek shrugs out of his jacket and squints down at the three gashes marring Stiles’ flesh. As far as maiming goes, they’ve both seen and lived through worse. The creature they had followed, the one which had left a trail of dead bodies in its wake, had merely grazed Stiles in comparison to the other humans it had encountered. It didn’t mean that the gashes wouldn’t need stitches though. He says as much, which makes Stiles’ shoulders sag in a defeat with an accompanying groan.

“You’re the worst at stitches,” he whines and Derek rolls his eyes, hands fiddling with the first aid kit. It’s a conversation they’ve had many times before. 

“Sucks to be you,” Derek replies, any and all sympathy void from his voice. He pulls a pair of disposable gloves from the kit and wrangles them onto his hands. 

“You know what? It really does suck to be me. Thank you for acknowledging that,” Stiles snaps in retaliation, but closes his mouth just as fast when Derek places his hands on him. A curse manages to escape before he presses his lips shut.

After all of these years, they’ve fallen into a routine. Derek is well-acquainted with the pimped up first aid kit, courtesy of Mrs. McCall, and while his stitch work might not be as neat as Lydia’s, he gets the job done. Stiles babbles on a bad day and stays silent on an even worse day. Derek cleans and disinfects the lacerations, sterilizes the needle and gets to work. Stiles bites down on his bottom lip, his phone working as a distraction in his still trembling hands. Derek’s own phone lights up with a received message, but he spares it no mind.

“I just texted the others, in the group chat,” Stiles explains, his voice weak and tight as the needle once again penetrates his skin. “Told them we’re okay.”

Derek figures that  _ okay  _ is a bit of a stretch. Alive? Yes. Okay? Debatable. Yet he hums in agreement and lets the room fill with the noises of the still falling rain, Stiles’ shallow breaths and the distressed pitter patter of his heart. No, they’re not okay. 

“There,” Derek eventually says, as he cuts the thread and applies a dry bandage over the stitches. “And you didn’t even faint this time.”

“Oh shut up,” Stiles replies, but with no real heat. “That was like one time and it was years ago!” 

Derek hums with feigned disbelief, but revels in the slight uptick of Stiles’ lips, and collects the bloodied supplies to clean and put away for the next time they’ll need them. They take turns in the bathroom where they attempt to wash away the red from their hands while the other undresses and hangs their wet and dirty clothes to dry. Derek makes sure that the door is locked and that the curtains completely cover the window before he turns back to the bed. Stiles is standing next to it. There’s still blood beneath his fingernails. It’s always the hardest to get out.

“I always knew you were trying to get me into bed,” Stiles teases and pulls the covers back on the left side of the bed, next to the bathroom. Derek always sleeps closest to the door. It’s an unspoken agreement. 

“They only had this room,” Derek objects halfheartedly, eyes warily tracking the grimace twisting Stiles’ face as he climbs onto the mattress.

“Uh-huh, sure, honey. That’s what they all say.”

“Who are they?” Derek asks, pulling back the covers on the other side. It takes him far less time to get comfortable, his own wounds having healed before they even reached the motel. 

“You know, they.  _ Men.  _ Taking advantage of innocent maidens like myself,” Stiles explains, turning this way and that in an attempt to find a working sleeping arrangement for all his gangly limbs. “Ouch, fuck.”

He eventually settles on his side, his exposed back towards Derek. 

“You’re many things, but an innocent maiden is not one of them,” Derek replies, looking up at the ceiling in lieu of staring at the old scars adorning Stiles’ skin.

Stiles scoffs. 

“I resent that.”

Derek smiles.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles mutters some well chosen insults under his breath, well aware of Derek being able to hear every single one of them and it’s enough for something to settle in Derek’s chest. They lived today. The creature had not been the most dangerous they’ve encountered, the injuries they had suffered weren’t the worst they’ve ever had. Yet every time he smells the sharp tang of Stiles’ pain, hears his cry of shock, a vice closes around Derek’s heart and it won’t ease up until they’re safely tucked away in yet another shitty motel room. They’ve never shared a bed before though, and Derek finds himself acutely aware of the rhythm of Stiles’ breathing for far longer than usual. It shudders, even after hours of silence has passed and his heartbeat never truly slows enough for rest. It keeps Derek awake, makes his fingers itch, tries to tempt them into action. Derek closes his fists tightly, but can no longer keep his eyes from roving along the pale expanse of Stiles’ back. The room is plunged in darkness, but not enough to hide the freckles and moles scattered between the scars of fights won and lost. They read like an overview of years passed and Derek easily finds what remains of the once profusely bleeding puncture wound from a manticore’s poisonous spines, the half-moon shape of a kelpie’s right hind hoof and the now healed cuts from a griffin’s sharp talons. 

Derek can never really figure out if he’s envious of Stiles or if he’s relieved that his own scars aren’t as easily identifiable. They’re easier to hide that way, but so much harder to explain when necessary.

Stiles shifts minutely next to him and a fresh wave of pain washes over Derek, nearly strong enough to choke him. The instinct to reach out, to help, is too sudden and intense and his fingertips press against Stiles’ hipbone before he can stop himself. He would pull back too, is already halfway there when Stiles’ hand closes over his own in what can only be described as desperation.

“Oh thank fuck,” Stiles gasps, his body, as if unbidden, pushing hungrily up into Derek’s touch before it collapses back against the mattress. It’s like the black tendrils rushing up Derek’s wrist pull Stiles’ bones with them, because he goes from a taut line to limp and languid, a borderline decadent vision spread upon the cheap motel sheets. 

“You… you should’ve said,” Derek starts, the words thick and clumsy in his throat, trying to be quiet. “That you were in pain.”

Stiles turns his head towards him, spine curving in a delicious arch to keep the weight off his injured side, looks at him even though his human eyes can’t possibly gauge any details in the darkness.

“I thought you were asleep,” he replies in a whisper, closer than he should be.

“I wasn’t, isn’t…” Derek clears his throat. “Next time, wake me.”

It’s a request that divulges more than Derek intended, or maybe it was just enough, because while Stiles doesn’t speak, his fingers flex upon the back of Derek’s hand in a gentle caress. They wrap, firm and sure, around Derek’s wrist and it’s a nearly impatient request, so  _ Stiles  _ even in the silence that Derek almost has to tamp down on an amused chuckle. Instead he moves closer and presses his dry lips to Stiles’ freckled shoulder in agreement, a resounding yes. Stiles exhales and his breaths don’t shudder anymore. Derek buries his face by Stiles’ neck, feels the still wet strands of his hair against his nose. No, he thinks. They’re not okay, but they might be on their way. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can say hi to me on [tumblr](https://everchanginginks.tumblr.com)!


End file.
